All Hallows' Aftermath
by OwlinAutumn
Summary: After a Halloween party at 221b ends just the way you expect it to, the only ones left take the opportunity to wind down.


Downstairs the front door gave a final slam. It could be considered a pity that Sherlock's histrionics had practically chased the rest of the guests away, but to Mycroft's jangling nerves it was rather a relief. With a palm pressed to one closed eye, he drew a long steadying breath. A few heartbeats later, the temperature next to his left arm rose several degrees, and he drew that hand across his mouth and down his chin as the only other person in the flat filled his vision.

"Well, that was quite the performance," John breathed, smirking as he dangled an amber offering, three fingertips on the rim as the ice chinked softly against the glass. It was another few beats before the elder Holmes gingerly placed his hand beneath the thick base and its steady weight was let drop into his palm.

"My brother is nothing if not dramatic," Mycroft sighed, unable to help letting his lips quirk in answer to the amusement in the doctor's eyes.

"Runs in the family, more like."

"Hm. You, John, know better than most his proficiency in getting under my skin."

Mycroft regarded the light of the kitchen through the glass before taking a sip; less because he appreciated the colour and more as it afforded him an ample excuse to observe the other man obliquely. The black, sleeveless top and rather tightly fit matching trousers may have been a pop culture reference that the other partygoers generally seemed to recognise - he had been informed earlier that the rather complex compound bow John had borrowed from a friend explained everything, but truly, he was lost when it came to the comic book genre. However, it left the doctor's arms rather deliciously available to admiration, softly muscular as befit a retiring man of action, his golden skin tone dimmed by London over time but still warm. John retrieved his own glass from the mantlepiece and took the seat opposite - his traditional chair - before glancing over his shoulder at the door.

"Think Greg'll be able to handle him? He was practically apoplectic ... "

"The Inspector has been '_handling_' Sherlock for far longer than you might realise. I am certain he can cope with the situation." He was unable to keep the smug inference from his tone, from curving his lips in a secretive smile, but it just seemed to make John huff out a laugh. The younger man settled back in his chair, arching an eyebrow as he took in Mycroft as if they hadn't been mingling in the same two small rooms for the last few hours.

"I _am_ sorry to have had a part in breaking up your party. We're ... It escalates and then gets beyond us, you know. I must apologise. It was going rather fine up to that point, it seemed."

John shrugged artlessly, "I suppose. Both you and Sherlock weren't really enjoying it. At least half the Scotland Yarders that showed up only did it to irritate him, anyhow. And for the free drinks. Not to mention the reason Sherlock ended up as tipsy as he was in the first place is we each found it apparently necessary to shove a new glass in his hand every time he was about to open his mouth." The chuckle he gave as he shook his head was rueful but resigned. "It was good to see everyone, but ... no loss, really." He waved a slow hand about at the nearly empty flat, "Sometimes I think I throw get togethers like that just to remind myself how much I enjoy the quiet."

Mycroft hummed softly, nodding in agreement. The pace of his day to day made him appreciate the calm and quietude, when and wherever he could find it. They sipped together in the silence, enjoying it for the fragile, fleeting thing it was. By the time it was broken once more, a significant portion of the scotch had been drained from the elder Holmes' glass.

"Your costume suits you, you know." John's smile crooked amusedly, perhaps almost fondly, his voice deepened as if made syrupy by the drink, and Mycroft remembered the surprise in his eyes when he'd opened the door earlier in the evening.

"Thank you. Yours as well, I must say. Though I'm not certain it's safe to keep that weapon around, as I caught Sherlock eyeing it several times over the evening."

John's groan was laced with laughter, "Oh yes, that's all I need. Though perhaps Mrs. Hudson would be more forgiving of arrows in the walls than bullets." The redirect was short lived, however, as blue eyes twinkled impishly in the low light, unwilling to be erred. "Really though, it is a bit red. Your outfit. I don't think you needed to go so far to make people get it. Trying a bit hard, my mum would say."

"Would she?" A lofty brow raised as Mycroft internalised the smirk that threatened his neutral mask. "And wearing pleather trousers isn't trying too hard? I don't suppose you had to be helped into those? I'm surprised Sherlock wasn't traumatised before the party had even begun."

"I mean, I'd've never put a bespoke red suit past you, waistcoat and all. You probably already had it hanging about. And I greatly admire the horns, excellent job there. But the black and red tie? Skull cufflinks? And that tail's a bit dodgy ... not sure about those bits."

"Did you buy that shirt specifically to display your upper arm musculature? Or perhaps you planned your whole costume around that one particular item of clothing just to draw everyone's attention to your biceps. I suppose we should be grateful you didn't simply cut the sleeves off of something serviceable."

"Is that umbrella a special one bought for the occasion? Maybe there's a catalogue somewhere that carries black and blood red umbrellas in a spatter motif? Or did you simply have 'Anthea' drown one of your collection _in the blood of the last man you made disappear_? _WoooOoooOOoooh_!"

"I didn't realise you'd planned on advertising that you've been using your gym membership is what I'm saying. 'Oh, hello, I'm Doctor John Watson. I was just poured into my trousers and now I'll spend half the party trying to look nonchalant as I use the old directing-guests-to-different-places-as-an-excuse-to-flex trope.'"

" ... Are those fangs real, or just plastic?"

"Want to find out?"

"This is what started the whole thing earlier with Sherlock in the first place, might I remind you."

"I might remind _you_ that _I_ didn't start it this time. And, Doctor? You haven't answered my question."


End file.
